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A  WREATH 
FOR 
EDWIN 
MARKHAM 


Sdwi 


wn 


G/ributesJrom  the  zPoets  ofo^ 
on  his  (Seventieth  ^Birthda 


1922 


Three  hundred  copies  of  this  first  edition  have 
been  printed  in  the  month  of  September,  1922 


Copyright  1922 
by  Flora  Warren  Seymour 


THE   TORCH    PRESS 

CEDAR   RAJ-IDS 

IOWA 


FOREWORD 

Edwin  Markham,  Bookfellow  No.  56,  spent  his  seven 
tieth  birthday  at  Bookfellow  Lodge  in  Chicago,  upon 
which  occasion  were  read  the  poetic  tributes  here  pre 
sented.  They  represent  the  respect  and  love  of  the  poets 
of  America  for  the  author  of  one  of  the  world's  great 
poems,  as  well  for  his  noble  character  as  for  his  high 
achievement,  and  this  book  is  published  by  THE  BOOK- 
FELLOWS  as  a  fitting  memorial  to  a  dear  and  worthy  com 
rade.  It  was  done  by  all  the  co-producers  with  great 
good-will  and  so  will  be  received  by  lovers  of  poetry  and 
high  endeavor  the  world  over. 

The  portrait-profile  of  Mr.  Markham  was  drawn  for 
this  book  by  Earl  H.  Reed,  Bookfellow  No.  2173.  Let 
tering  on  the  title-page  and  cover  is  by  Will  Ransom, 
Bookfellow  No.  1500. 

The  poetic  tributes  are  by 

Wallace  Bruce  Amsbary  Mary  Tarver  Carroll 

Bertha  Avery  Josephine  Craven  Chandler 

Claribel  Weeks  Avery  Thomas  Curtis  Clark 

Faith  Baldwin  Edmund  Vance  Cooke 

William  E.  Barton  Helen  Gray  Cone 

Ruth  Bassett  Elizabeth  Crighton 

Katharine  Lee  Bates  Miles  M.  Dawson 

Charles  G.  Blanden  Babette  Deutsch 

Louis  James  Block  Nathan  Haskell  Dole 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  D.  J.  Donovan 

Pauline  Florence  Brower  Henry  Dumont 

Witter  Bynner  Walter  Pritchard  Eaton 


Charles  Farwell  Edson 

Ethel  Feuerlicht 

Sara  Bard  Field 

Joseph  Andrew  Galahad 

Zona  Gale 

Louise  Ayres  Garnett 

Theodosia  Garrison 

Clifford  Franklin  Gessler 

William  Griffith 

Hazel  Hall 

Joseph  Mills  Hanson 

Idella  Janes  Harrison 

M.  V.  P.  Hazelton 

Hildegarde   Hawthorne 

Rebecca  Helman 

E.  Sewell  Hill 

David  Irving  Janes 

Father  Jerome 

Josephine    Johnson 

John  Kearns 

Richard  R.  Kirk 

A  Lady  of  Eighty 

Mary  Sinton  Leitch 

Orville  Leonard 

Edwin  Carlile  Litsey 

Elizabeth  Mac  Veagh 

Anna  Catherine  Markham 

Minna  Mathison 

Virginia  Taylor  McCormick 

J.   Corson   Miller 


John  R.  Moreland 

Jean  Palmer  Nye 

Emma  Kenyon  Parrish 

Antoinette  DeCourcey  Patterson 

Elia  W.  Peattie 

Marie  Tello  Phillips 

Clara  Catherine  Prince 

Aurelia  Henry  Reinhardt 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

John  Jerome   Rooney 

James  Rorty 

Lew  Sarett 

Whitelaw  Saunders 

Emma  Playter  Seabury 

George  Steele   Seymour 

Jay  G.  Sigmund 

Marion  Couthouy  Smith 

Myrtella   Southerland 

Anne  Higginson  Spicer 

Vincent  Starrett 

George  Sterling 

Charles  Hanson  Towne 

Albert  Edmund  Trombly 

Anna  Spencer  Twitchell 

Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff 

Charles  R.  Wakeley 

Lydia  Avery  Coonley  Ward 

Owen  P.  White 

William  Thornton  Whitsett 

Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 

Clement  Wood 


AD  EDWINUM  MARKHAM 

EDWINUM  laeto  colimus  hac  die 
Ejusque  excelsos  canimus  canores  — 
Tempora  cingant  rutilisque  sertis 
EDWINUM  MARKHAM. 


—  FR.  JEROME 


A  WREATH  FOR  EDWIN  MARKHAM 


FROM  HIS  NATIVE  STATE 

Here  is  a  hail  from  Oregon  — 
The  land  where  your  eyes  first  saw  the  sun. 
Wherever  you  go  till  your  race  is  run 
There'll  be  always  a  hail  —  from  Oregon! 

-JOSEPH  ANDREW  GALAHAD 

Greetings  from  distant  Oregon  - 
Where  mists  are  colored  with  the  sun ; 
Whose  pride  is  great,  and  justly  great, 
In  you,  her  Poet  Laureate! 

—  HAZEL  HALL 


FROM  THE  GOLDEN  WEST 

Homer's  head  and  Milton's  art 
Shelley's  soul  and  Lincoln's  heart! 
Wind  and  water,  earth  and  sky, 
Bless  the  good  man  passing  by! 

—  GEORGE  STERLING 


Now  in  that  church  of  souls  you  willed 
The  candles  waver  and  the  chants  are  stilled  - 
And  yet  your  brave  expectancy  will  smile 
Hearing  dream  Brotherhoods  that  sing  in  file. 

— JAMES  RORTY 


Somewhere  you  learned  that  beauty  is  love 

And  somehow  you  fashioned  the  secret  in  art. 

O  Poet,  yours  is  the  priesthood  that  serves 

The  altar  of  Beauty  with  flame  from  the  heart. 

—  SARA  BARD  FIELD 


Old  Man,  —  I,  an  old  man,  hasten  here  to  greet  you 
To  place  a  willow  and  a  laurel  on  your  brow- 

You  shall  live  on  and  Death  can  not  defeat  you, 

You,  who  know  the  sweat  of  those  that  hoe  and  plough, 
—  CHARLES  ERSKINE  SCOTT  WOOD 


Songbirds  in  one  fair  April  weather, 
Green  hills  with  the  poppies  aflame, 

And  sea-breezes  hurrying  eastward, 
Thee,  Poet  and  Brother  acclaim. 

-AURELIA  HENRY  REINHARDT 

16 


Why  should  he  dread  the  years  which  but  endow 
With  mellow  beauty  all  the  gracious  whole  - 

Which  do  but  add  a  luster  to  his  brow 
And  inches  to  the  stature  of  his  soul! 

—  ANNA  SPENCER  TWITCHELL 


From  where  the  o-o  stirred  the  fire-born  soil 
To  a  new  bloom,  we  send  to  you  today, 

Poet  who  sang  so  fittingly  of  toil, 
Aloha,  friendliest  word  the  tongue  can  say. 

—  CLIFFORD  FRANKLIN  GESSLER 


He  lived,  he  learned  to  know 

Humanity 
And  that  Man  with  the  Hoe. 

—  CHARLES  FARWELL  EDSON 


SOME  NEW  YORK  BOOKFELLOWS 

Reflected  in  his  verse,  as  in  his  face, 
Is  power  and  is  glory  and  is  grace. 

—WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 


His  years  are  as  a  tree,  with  leaves  of  truth, 
With  fruit  of  beauty,  ripely  russet- red, 

With  roots  struck  deep  into  the  soil  of  youth 
And  on  God's  living  waters  ever  fed. 

—  FAITH  BALDWIN 


Poet  of  the  high  place, 

All  that  our  hearts  would  say, 

Our  pens  but  dimly  trace. 
Hail  to  thy  natal  day! 

—  IDELLA  JANES  HARRISON 


The  years  walk  gaily  side  by  side  with  you, 
And  each  one,  as  it  greets  you,  takes  your  hand 
And  whispers,  "Comrade,  you  will  understand, 

I  bring  you  only  what  is  kind  and  true." 

—  MARION  COUTHOUY  SMITH 


If  in  that  far  home-town  beyond  the  skies 

All  men  must  ply  some  trade  to  find  heaven  sweet, 

Yours  be  the  joy  to  fashion,  kind  and  wise, 
The  Shoes  of  Happiness  for  earth-worn  feet. 

—  ETHEL  FEUERLICHT 


18 


Seventy  and  twenty  are  fifty  years  apart, 
But  he  has  youth  eternal  who  bears  a  singing  heart, 
Twenty  years  or  seventy --'tis  all  the  same  to  one 
Whose  heart  runs  up  the  Hills  of  Dawn  to  greet  the  rising 

— THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


THE  BUGLE  BLOWN  AT  DAWN 

While  we  toiled  in  the  cruel  dark, 

You  found  the  splendor  of  the  height; 

You  are  a  bugle  blown  at  dawn, 
Waking  your  brother  in  the  light. 

—  CLEMENT  WOOD 


FRIENDS  AND  NEIGHBORS 

Time,  always  writing,  sees  no  trace 
Of  all  he  writes  on  Markham's  face. 
On  Markham's  face  he  writes  in  vain: 
Apollo  rubs  it  out  again. 

—  EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 


Great  memories  garland  this  fair  April  day 
When  Shakespeare  came  and  Wordsworth  went  away; 
This  day,  elect  for  precious  death  and  birth, 
Brought  Markham's  brother-smile  to  sweeten  earth. 

—  HELEN  GRAY  CONE 


Hail  we  his  hoar-headed  prime,  at  the  peak  of  his  pride 

stands  the  poet; 
Wisdom  more  mellow  than  wine,  faith  that  is  finer  than 

go    '  —  BABETTE  DEUTSCH 


Leonine  spirit,  proclaiming  the  morning! 
Awed  not  by  enemies,  heeding  no  warning, 
Sing  thou  man's  triumphs,  scorning 
His  backslidings. 

—  MILES  M.  DAWSON 


May  Life  in  turn  bestow  upon  you  duly 

That  happiness  your  honored  presence  brings 
To  other  souls,  and  that  content,  —  for  truly 
She  holds  within  her  hands  few  better  things. 

-  ANTOINETTE  DECOURCEY  PATTERSON 

20 


Once,  on  a  Western  coast,  where  the  winds  and  the  sea 

are  wild, 
The  gods  leaned  down  and  blessed  a  new-born  wonder 

child. 

They  gave  him  the  stuff  of  dreams,  the  gift  of  iron  song, 
A  voice  that  would  cry  unafraid  in  the  face  of  the  world's 

deep  wrong; 
And  they  filled  his  heart  with  a  sense  of  pity  and  pain 

for  the  poor- 
He  sang,  and  the  whole  world  listened;  he  sang — and 

his  songs  shall  endure. 

-CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

The  Years,  like  torches,  flare  and  fade, 
And  most  things  pass,  and  most  things  die, 

But  beauty,  by  the  poet  made, 
Links  century  with  century. 

—  HlLDEGARDE  HAWTHORNE 


Hail!  Mighty  singer  of  celestial  song! 
You  walk  in  beauty  through  the  crowded  throng, 
Beloved  of  all  mankind;  your  voice  shall  be 
Deathless  as  music  in  eternity. 

—  BLANCHE  SHOEMAKER  WAGSTAFF 


We  would  remember  and  forget — 

Forget  old  Time  today; 
Remember  you  are  with  us  yet, 

To  cheer  us  on  our  way. 

—  ELIZABETH  CRIGHTON 


21 


SOME  NEW  ENGLAND  GREETINGS 

The  spirit  weaveth  wings 

From  earth's  few,  fragile  years, 

For  what  far  journeyings 

Beyond  what  flaming  spheres! 

—  KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 


To  reach  the  height  of  seventy  years  that  shine 

Upon  rich  fruitage  of  a  gift  divine, 

Is  heritage  enough  for  any  man 

To  feel  that  he  has  justified  God's  plan. 

—  RUTH  BASSETT 


Strong  Saxon  English  builds  our  Markham's  verse; 

It  rolls  with  fine  sonorous  organ-power; 
It  holds  a  volume  in  a  couplet  terse; 

'Tis  not  ephemeral,  like  a  pretty  flower. 

—  NATHAN  HASKELL  DOLE 


My  verse  is  like  a  tiny  fire  of  spills 

That  burns  behind  the  bars, 
The  Priest  of  Beauty  stands  upon  the  hills 

And  makes  his  song  of  stars. 

—  CLARIBEL  WEEKS  AVERY 


22 


When  the  white  haired  poet  counts  his  years 
He  counts  the  songs  that  he  has  sung, 

Then  sings  again  to  greet  the  dawn, 
Because  his  heart  is  young. 

— WALTER  PRITCHARD  EATON 


There's  one  Edwin  Markham,  the  Man  with  the  Hoe; 
Through  life's  fertile  furrows  he  weeded  his  row, 
And  harvested  song  that  the  future  may  know 
That  the  hoe'll  be  to  Markham  what  the  raven's  to  Poe! 
—  WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


SONGS  FROM  THE  SOUTHLAND 

Genius,  passing  on  her  way, 
Paused  where  a  new-born  infant  lay, 
And  gently  with  her  fingertips 
She  touched  the  child  upon  the  lips. 

—  OWEN  P.  WHITE 


Out  of  your  manly  heart  a  brutal  wrong 
Wrung  that  compassionate  foreboding  song. 
Seventy  years!     Your  song  in  seventy  more 
Will  have  burnt  out  our  shame  from  crust  to  core. 

—  ALBERT  EDMUND  TROMBLY 


Though  not  for  me  to  bend  the  knee 

To  potentates  and  kings, 
Yet  glad  enow  I  lowly  bow 

When  Edwin  Markham  sings. 

—WILLIAM  THORNTON  WHITSETT 


Dear  Master,  though  I  may  not  come  today 
And  at  your  feet  learn  from  your  wisdom  gray; 
Yet  in  the  name  of  all  who  dream  and  sing, 
The  love  and  homage  of  the  craft  I  bring. 

—  EDWIN  CARLILE  LITSEY 


As  long  as  men  shall  toil 

His  honored  name  will  be 
Wreathed  with  the  laurel  bright 

Of  immortality. 

-MARY  TARVER  CARROLL 

24 


This  pilgrim-poet  shall  not  quench  his  thirst 
From  fragile  goblet  filled  with  purple  wine; 

His  cup  God  shaped  where  singing  waters  burst 
In  grottoed  coolness,  'mid  wild  columbine. 

—  ELIA  W.  PEATTIE 


HERE  ARE  VIRGINIANS 

The  great  ones  come  with  laurel  and  with  bay 
To  greet  a  Master  crowned  with  fruitful  years. 
In  my  small  garden  but  one  flower  appears ;- 

It  is  rosemary  that  I  send  today. 

-JOSEPHINE  JOHNSON 


Magician!     By  the  power  of  your  word 

A  humble  hoe  became  a  flaming  sword; 

It  smites  us — fools,  kings,  cowards  —  to  our  knees, 

Wounded  with  shame  for  our  iniquities. 

—  MARY  SINTON  LEITCH 


You  were  no  careless  jester  with  the  muse, 
Your  Pegasus  no  mere  high-prancing  steed, 

To  plowman's  work  you  bound  his  mighty  thews 
For  ages  long  to  serve  the  poor  man's  need. 

—  ELIZABETH  MACVEAGH 


Like  his  own  west  country, 

Staunch  and  free  he  stands, 
And  holds  a  nation's  lyric  life 

Within  his  kindly  hands. 

—  VIRGINIA  TAYLOR  MCCORMICK 


Here's  to  friend  Markham,  a  man  among  men, 
Whose  years  are  the  Biblical  threescore  and  ten, 
May  he  garner  four-score,  and  a  few  decades  more, 
Enjoying  the  laurels  achieved  by  his  pen. 

-  DAVID  IRVING  JANES 
26 


The  poet,  author,  friend, 

With  outstretched  hands  we  meet  you, 

With  loving  hearts  we  greet  you 
And  best  of  wishes  send. 

—  BY  A  LADY  OF  EIGHTY 


So  many  songs  are  of  your  weaving, 
And  some  are  gold  and  some  are  red, 

Some  are  for  gladness,  some  for  grieving; 
You  bid  us  choose  —  bitter  or  sweet - 

The  dream?     The  bread ?- 

Poppy  or  wheat?  — 

-JOHN  R.  MORELAND 


SUNG  WITH  A  SMILE 

OF  EDWIN  BY  EDMUND 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  "Centuries"  he  stands, 
"Smart  Sets"  of  "Nations"  also  in  his  hands, 
And  reads  the  ponderous  praise  which  shall  be  said 
Of  Edwin  Markham  after  he  is  dead. 

—  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 


Howdy,  you  ole  Son  of  a  Gun, 

I'm  sure  plumb  glad  to  greet  yer 
An'  I  sure  hopes  when  you'r  one-naught-one 

We'll  meet  again  an'  eat  yer. 

—  ORVILLE  LEONARD 


With  this  great  truth  a  hit  you've  scored ;  - 
The  hoe  is  mightier  than  the  sword. 
And  this  again  you've  made  us  know;- 
The  man  is  mightier  than  the  hoe. 

—  GEORGE  STEELE  SEYMOUR 


AT  THE  BIRTHDAY  OFFICE 

A  birthday?     For  you,  sir?     I  say  now!     My  word! 
Don't  you  think,  on  the  square,  sir,  it's  rather  absurd 
For  a  blooming  immortal  with  truth  on  his  tongue 
To  claim  that  he's  growing — Well,  take  it!     Write 

"young." 

*  —  RICHARD  R.  KIRK 


28 


Come  with  all  jollity  and  joys! 

Take  cares  outside  and  park  'em. 
Let's  celebrate  the  Birthday  Boys; 

Bill  Shakespeare  and  Eddy  Markham. 

—  ANNE  HlGGINSON  SPICER 


JUST  OURSELVES 

He  ploughs  the  fields  and  turning  up  the  earth 
Out  of  the  muck  and  dark  brings  God  to  birth. 

-  LOUISE  AYRES  GARNETT 

With  vision  keen,  with  noble  purpose  thou 

Hast  stress'd  the  Age's  wrongs  in  purple  phrase; 

With  much  concern,  the  smug  complacent  now 
Harkens  in  fear  to  thy  disturbing  lays. 

-  WALLACE  BRUCE  AMSBARY 

EVENING 

Hope  guards  the  gates  of  sunrise,  Faith  kneels  adown  the 

west, 

When  floats  thro'  sunset's  glories,  largesse  of  calm  and  rest 
Of  eventide, 
And  even's  star 

Shines  tranquil  o'er  the  harbor-side, 
The  furled  sail,  the  lulling  tide, 

The  beaten  spar. 

-E.  SEWELL  HILL 

Untiring  minstrel  of  our  social  need, 

With  message  strong 
To  hearten  souls  oppressed,  and  lives  that  bleed, 

Bowed  down  by  wrong. 

We  greet  you  as  the  herald  of  a  hope, 

Since  dawn  began, 
Urgent,  inspiring,  matchless  in  its  scope,  - 

The  brotherhood  of  man. 

-CHARLES  R.  WAKELEY 

30 


In  words  not  many,  thoughts  few  if  any, 
I'm  uttering  now  what  little  I  can, 

Heaven  gild  ye,  God  yield  ye, 

O  Poet  that  sings  to  the  heart  of  man! 

—  EMMA  KENYON  PARRISH 


You  have  no  thought  for  lords  and  kings, 

Disdaining  caste  and  clan; 
You  gave  conviction  rhythmic  wings 

And  challenged  Earth  for  Man. 

—THOMAS  CURTIS  CLARK 


The  gold  and  crimson  sun  across  the  sea, 
The  morning  with  its  glorifying  breath, 

The  surging  forth  of  Love,  Fraternity, 

The  Man  victorious  over  Time  and  Death. 

—  Louis  JAMES  BLOCK 


Beauty  he  saw  and  seized, 

And  in  his  lines  confined; 
So  shall  the  world  be  pleased 

His  name  to  beauty  bind. 

—  HENRY  DUMONT 


A  Master  mind;  a  singer's  soul, 

Whose  verse  stirs  hearts  the  good  to  win. 
The  world  will  crown  with  laurel  wreath, 
The  pen  that  points  the  whole  world  kin. 

-  D.  J.  DONOVAN 


His  HOE  AND  YOURS 

Ten  thousand  eyes  ere  yours  beheld  him  lean 
Upon  his  hoe,  and  looking  no  more  knew; 

But  you  dug  deep  and  with  an  edge  most  keen,- 
Justice  and  brotherhood  behind  you  grew. 

—  WILLIAM  E.  BARTON 


What  glass  can  tell  the  sands  that  flow 

Through  years  and  days  of  joyous  giving? 

Only  the  true  in  heart  can  know 
That  but  the  loving  are  the  living. 

—  MINNA  MATHISON 


Baptismal  drop  of  genius,  wisdom's  tear, 
Man's  benediction,  beauty's  chastened  flame, 

And  all  the  vanished  snows  of  yesteryear, 

White  poet,  weave  to-day  your  crown  of  fame! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


O  Seer,  who  sees  the  great  eternal  plan 
Of  peace  on  earth  to  all  the  nations  free, 

Who  dreams  and  prays  the  brotherhood  of  man, 
And  Light  across  the  Aprils  yet  to  be. 

Poet  and  prophet  from  the  Golden  Gate, 

That  swings  the  world  in  from  the  Sunset  Sea, 
Who  champions  labor  with  a  love  so  great, 
It  circles  all  the  world: 

We  welcome  Thee. 
—  EMMA  PLAYTER  SEABURY 


FROM  ALL  AROUND 

Here  is  the  love  I  love  to  send, 
With  all  my  heart  I  greet  you  thus, 

Dear  friend  who  has  the  world  for  friend, 
Your  birthday  is  your  gift  to  us. 

— ZONA  GALE 


May  songs  thrill  your  heart  with  each  morning's  glow, 
And  peace  fill  your  soul  when  the  sunsets  go. 

—  CLARA  CATHERINE  PRINCE 


May  beauty  of  a  dream  of  Brotherhood 
Still  light  thy  path  uncounted  years  apart, 

A  torch  revealing  happiness  and  good 

To  all  men  here,  Great  Understanding  Heart! 
—  MYRTELLA  SOUTHERLAND 


There  is  no  age  to  thought. 

The  years  but  open  up  new  trails. 

And  some  there  be  who  follow,  some  who  lead- 

A  leader  thou! 

— JEAN  PALMER  NYE 


Dear  poet  friend,  an  April  too  I  chose 
To  slip  into  this  world  of  verse  and  prose; 
And  singing  here  beneath  your  stately  tree, 
My  song  shall  celebrate  your  jubilee. 

—JOHN  KEARNS 


33 


If  "to  grow  old  in  Heaven  is  to  grow  young," 
As  bard  and  sage  have  sung; 
This  day  that  marks  your  birth 
Proclaims  a  Heaven  on  Earth. 

—  PAULINE  FLORENCE  BROWER 


Shakespeare's  April,  Shakespeare's  day, 
Launched  you  on  your  singing  way; 
And  today  your  valiant  mirth, 
Like  April's  sun,  renews  our  earth. 

—  LYDIA  AVERY  COONLEY  WARD 


Speaking  me  face  to  face — no  never  — 
But  height  to  height  and  depth  to  depth — forever! 

—  BERTHA  AVERY 


You  made  a  gallant  truce  with  Time 

And  flung  it  to  the  breeze - 
To  waft  your  galaxy  in  rhyme 

Spanning  two  centuries. 

—  MARIE  TELLO  PHILLIPS 


ENTERING  THE  HARBOR 

Pilot  of  a  white-sailed  ship 

On  life's  uncharted  sea; 
God  your  Captain ;  on  the  prow 

A  winged  Victory. 

—  WHITELAW  SAUNDERS 


34 


As  peasants,  bowed  in  wordless  prayer 

When  drifts  the  Angelas  at  even; 
We  smaller  ones  stand  hushed  today, 

Before  the  song  your  heart  has  given! 

-JAY  G.  SlGMUND 

Man,  out  of  the  West! 

Man,  out  of  the  loins  of  the  tender  and  glowing  West! 

Thou,  for  our  honor  and  glory  and  strength  — 

We  greet  thee! 

-JOSEPHINE  CRAVEN  CHANDLER 


Heart  throbs  and  fire  and  sunset  gleams 

You  weave  into  a  song, 
And  all  the  world  lays  down  its  dreams 

To  listen  long. 

—  REBECCA  HELMAN 


Unbowed  by  seven  decades  straight  he  stands 
And  passes  on  to  youth  the  torch  of  flame; 

The  homage  of  our  words,  our  hearts,  our  hands 
We  offer  now  to  Edwin  Markham's  name. 

—  M.  V.  P.  HAZELTON 


The  years  are  only  rocks,  on  which  he  scales 
The  heights.     From  each,  his  searching  eye  unveils 
New  sweeps  of  earth  whereon  his  brothers  tread; 
New  glories  in  God's  heavens  overhead. 

— JOSEPH  MILLS  HANSON 


35 


ON  RETURNING  EDWIN  MARKHAM'S  GOLD  SPECTACLES 

I  send  you  back  your  crystal  glasses 
In  which  the  golden  vision  passes. 
O,  would  we  wore  those  magic  rings 
Thro'  which  to  see  the  heart  of  things! 

—  JOHN  JEROME  ROONEY 


To  EDWIN  MARKHAM 

On  meeting  him  at  the  California  Market  with 
.  Albert  Bender 

Down  from  spaces  I  had  come,  from  the  Orient,  the  sea, 
Down  to  the  tallest  offices  on  earth.     .     . 

But,  close  to  the  Golden  Gate,  a  poet  greeted  me 
With  plains  of  wisdom  and  with  peaks  of  mirth. 

—  WITTER  BYNNER 


Yea,  surely,  he  who  chose  to  come  to  earth 
Upon  the  date  of  Master  Shakespeare's  birth 
Could  be  no  less  than  what  he  is  this  morn- 
Poet  beloved,  unto  the  purple  born. 

Hail !     O  Singer,  our  hearts  are  yours  today ; 
Our  little  fames,  like  weeds,  shall  pass  away, 
But  yours,  as  great  and  green  as  Ygdrasil, 
Fills  earth  with  loveliness — and  long  shall  fill. 

Three  score  years  and  ten !     This  means  naught  to  one 
Whose  works,  like  marble  temples  in  the  sun, 
Stand  forth  at  noon  in  flawless  lines  of  white, 
And  charm  the  everlasting  stars  at  night. 

—  CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN 


THE  SWORD 

To  E.  M.,  after  reading  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe" 

Over  the  moiling  jungle  of  the  world,  God  frowned  - 
Beholding  the  broken  millions  bowed  upon  the  ground, 
The  sunken-eyes,  and  those  with  ageless  sorrows  numb,  - 
The  predatory  few,  the  driven  dumb. 

Splendid  His  wrath:  behind  a  thundering  fusillade, 
From  a  flapping  scabbard  of  the  clouds  He  flashed  a  blade ; 
And  lunging  His  lightning-jagged  sword  of  mighty  girth 
Across  the  dark,  He  plunged  it  in  the  earth. 

Oh,  beautiful  the  leafy  tapestries  of  night, 
The  cheery  bough,  the  darkling  swallow  in  its  flight; 
More  beautiful  the  flaming  wrath  that  makes  men  free 
To  look  upon  the  bird,  the  bough,  the  tree. 

—  LEW  SARETT 


37 


Democracy's  great  Champion,  brave  and  bold, 
Flung  out  his  thunder-song  across  the  years, 
Calling  the  world  to  reckoning  for  tears 
The  toiler  wept  in  heat  and  rain  and  cold. 
The  Shepherd  of  the  fields  of  lyric  gold 
For  Song's  proud  feet  prepared  a  path  that  cheered 
Love-brooding  youth,  grief-stricken  age,  and  reared 
For  men  his  mount  of  beauty,  fold  on  fold. 

Beloved  Master,  skilled  in  flaming  line,- 
Seeker  and  shaper  of  the  dream  divine,  - 
Your  help  has  eased  the  burden  of  the  world, 
Where  Right's  poor,  trampled  banners  lie  unfurled; 
You  lifted  high  Love's  cup  of  deathless  youth, 
With  hands  that  knew  the  white-winged  bird  of  truth. 

—  J.  CORSON  MILLER 


DOWN  THE  LINE 

Seventy  years  —  a  mystic  phrase. 

The  heart  has  thronged  with  meanings - 

Completion,  judgment,  retrospect 

Are  in  it —  a  questioning  of  the  ways 

The  soul  has  come,  the  forces  that  direct; 

A  wonder  at  the  chances  that  spelt  fate 

Upon  one's  own  blind  path, 

And  down  obliterated  roads 

Where  dim  ancestral  figures  bore  our  loads. 

Reading,  O  poet,  the  story  of  your  house, 

A  hundred  times  your  type  is  there, 

That  Apollonian  face  and  air, 

That  cry  for  justice,  that  insistent  drearn 

Of  life  more  full  and  fair. 

I  feel  a  host  behind  you  down  the  years, 

A  tempo  in  their  blood  that  beats  in  yours, 

Something  they  dowered  you  with  of  high  and  fine 

That  still  in  you  endures. 

Today  I  see  them  down  the  centuries  stand 

Each  with  importunate  hand 

Upon  the  shoulder  of  the  next  ahead, 

Unseen,  deflecting  you  to  left  or  right, 

Unnoted,  giving  rhythm  to  your  step, 

Unheard,  giving  you  your  power  of  words  to  smite, 

Uplooking,  giving  your  eyes 

That  large  and  fearless  outlook  toward  the  skies. 

But  hold,  I  hear  you  say, 

What  of  the  hap  of  circumstance  to  sway, 

The  pull  of  some  strange  star  to  swerve 

The  course;  the  spell  of  books  whose  soul 

Goes  into  ours?     Ah  true,  these  things  may  curve 

39 


Man's  path  —  advance  his  soul,  delay, 

Yet  never  alone  he  picks  the  road  he  tries. 

We  beckon,  or  thrust  back,  the  good 

The  wrong,  because  of  olden  evil  forsworn, 

Or  good  upheld,  while  we  were  yet  unborn  - 

Because  of  will  that  stood, 

Or  failed,  long  since,  and  lies 

Coiled  up  in  us  today, 

Augmented,  lessened  on  the  way. 

They  had  a  will  to  goodness,  that  old  breed ; 
And  what  of  you  sprung  from  their  seed- 
A  scholar  finding  books  as  close  as  friends, 
Mankind's  all-lover  who  least  of  these  defends, 
A  thinker  most  at  home  in  things  unseen, 
An  artist  feeling  beauty  a  pain  that  stings, 
A  poet  wondering  at  all  human  things, - 
You,  blending  two  old  lines  in  one,  glean 
Best  of  both,  you  emphasize 
The  justice  they  for  centuries  claimed. 
The  order  and  the  beauty  they  have  named, 
You  sound  in  clearer  voice, 
You  frame  with  sharper  choice. 

You  spoke  the  word  that  is  the  century's  key 

Crying  the  world  unsafe  that  does  not  loose 

For  ampler  human  use 

The  toil-bound  drudge  made  brute  and  blind 

That  we  may  rest  cultured  and  fine  and  free.) 

You  spoke  when  none  were  speaking,  none  dared  speak; 

Your  call  went  traveling  on  the  wind 

Across  the  continent  and  the  sea 

In  pentecostal  tongue; 

And  shall  be  heard  and  sung 

40 


Until  your  happy  trine  of  good 

Is  safe  for  all — bread,  beauty,  brotherhood. 

—  ANNA  CATHERINE  MARKHAM 


Somewhat  more  than  thirty-five  years  ago,  Edwin 
Markham  came  upon  a  small  print  of  Millet's  celebrated 
painting,  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe,"  and  the  pain  of  it 
filled  his  heart.  He  placed  the  print  upon  his  wall  and, 
looking  at  it,  jotted  down  what  he  calls  the  rough  "field 
notes"  of  his  now  famous  poem.  Four  years  later  he 
chanced  upon  the  original  painting,  and  for  him  it  be 
came  at  once  "the  most  solemnly  impressive  of  all  modern 
paintings."  It  came  to  him  "wrapped  around  with  more 
terror  than  the  fearsome  shapes  of  Dante."  For  an  hour 
he  stood  before  the  painting,  absorbing  its  majestic  de 
spair,  the  terrible  import  of  its  admonition.  When  he 
had  returned  to  his  study,  in  Oakland,  California,  he 
resurrected  his  "field  notes,"  and  wrote  the  poem  as  we 
know  it  to-day. 

The  manuscript  reproduced  in  facsimile  in  this  bro 
chure,  is  the  first,  the  original,  copy  of  the  poem  in  its 
final  state.  The  verses  were  published  in  the  San  Fran 
cisco  Examiner,  and  shortly  they  electrified  the  nation. 
They  were  copied  far  and  wide,  and  their  fame  was 
known  and  celebrated  in  foreign  lands.  Over  night,  as 
it  were,  their  author  became  the  most  talked-of  poet  in 
the  world.  The  poem  made  him  thousands  of  friends, 
and  many  critics.  To-day  it  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
poems  in  the  English  language.  Whatever  else  he  may 
write  —  and  he  has  written  many  other  notable  poems, 
some  of  them,  in  the  opinion  of  critics,  better  than  "The 
Man  with  the  Hoe"  -Mr.  Markham  always  will  be  re 
membered  as  the  author  of  that  tremendous  work,  which 
so  admirably  supplements  the  great  painting  that  in 
spired  it. 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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